


Full Stop

by epithetta



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:49:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epithetta/pseuds/epithetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which the team is in the snow, and all is not well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Stop

**Author's Note:**

> written utilising the writerinadrawer challenge 3.02: 400 words, must be in a city (or place) new to the character and the character must need a favor from someone. Thank you to angstslashhope for the lovely and thoughtful beta.

_Eskimos have four hundred words for snow_ , Gwen says, snapping wet twigs from a tree. Owen pretends not to listen as he smacks the tech off his leg to dump the snow from its ports, Tosh watching him in mute horror. Ianto opens then clamps his mouth, lips a contrite line.

The dull _paff_ in the distance seems as harmless as the bang of a child's firework, and they don't regard it heavily until the slide of white thunder rolls down the mountain; Ianto grabs Owen's arm, rabbiting off sideways to bolt into a cave, where the two of them find themselves relegated to pocket torches and cursing. The air inside seems crystalline.

Owen's sweat-soaked parka is a veritable death shroud. Ianto's gloves rip in minutes. Red starlets blossom in the packed ice wall as they scrabble to get out, voices dulled against the compacted walls of the hole.

Ianto's watch is broken, and Owen's is on Cardiff time, so they know that they will be frozen before everyone they know sits down for tea.

Ianto's legs are longer, and his coat is drier, but they are both skinny from work and running and the in general bustle of being heroes all the time. Owen likes to fuck his excess weight off, but right now he wishes he had been more chaste, had built up more blubber. He turns in the circle of Ianto's arms and vibrates off his chest; cold-induced seizures make them wind up toys.

 _Stay with me_ , Owen says, hitting Ianto's chest, his hands deadened, beating even as his gears spool down. _Tell me, come on. Gwen said there were four hundred words for snow, right?_ Even as he says it, Ianto's eyes roll—exhaustion, not exasperation, deathly, not droll.

 _Talk to me._

 _It's not four hundred_ , Ianto grinds before his breath rattles out on Owen's fingers. _It's variances. There's only four. Like us._

 _Tell me anyway_ , Owen says, knowing that he's following Ianto out of the cave, out there, waiting for Tosh and Gwen, probably shuddering to halts themselves, fingers poking out of the snowdrifts like floral corpses. His muscles stop shivering. He is a boat on the rapids, finally come out onto the placid waters of the river.

Ianto slips away before he can say more, so Owen won't have to tell him that he is right, he always has to be so goddamn right.

END


End file.
